Prey
by nikkixsensei
Summary: Set during season 7. What others labeled betrayal, he analyzed through the prism of awe. Between Spike and Buffy, there was no struggle or need for one to exercise domain over the other. They fit together like puzzle pieces, making him all the more envious the longer he observed them.


**Author's Note:** Special thanks to **Mislav** for inspiring this story. Exploring the psychology of a character is both challenging and incredibly liberating, more so when introducing new elements to a familiar landscape.

Hope you enjoy!

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_"To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist – that is all."_

_\- Oscar Wilde_

Similar to his human existence, life as a vampire was quite lonely for Ash. He didn't surround himself with an entourage or even look to cultivate one; the latter was never a consideration. His own company sufficed. While rules also didn't matter much, cautious and quiet were accurate modes of description.

There were perks and drawbacks of immortality, a reality driven home with incomparable force as he perched atop the mausoleum at the cemetery corner.

_Sunnydale, California_.

Some choices you're forced into. Others you come to reach independent of influence.

Presently, it was hard to distinguish between the two or determine which variable held greater sway. He was forced and compelled in equal measure by just the possibility of relocating. Why? A certain elder he revered – Spike, once known as 'William the Bloody' - and copied in facets was here.

In Sunnydale.

Crafting a new chapter in an already unique story.

With his own sire out of reach following the first year of his new life, Ash branched out into research and catalogued Spike's whereabouts in his own way. Never wanting to draw attention to himself, he listened; that particular talent always served him well.

Numerous conversations ensued.

Hints of jealousy were hard to miss.

One of their kind simply doesn't survive – even less, thrive – for as long as he had. To last a hundred years was quite the accomplishment. Spike exceeded that figure and over time grew stronger, more resourceful and by extension feared. Upon knowing such facts, there was no substitute for metaphorically breathing him in.

'Elder', from his vantage point, felt incredibly appropriate.

The term was befitting.

Ten weeks elapsed since arriving, and still no contact. The culprit: self-awareness. Ash was ever mindful of the correlation between patterns, habits, and the role he played as part of the big picture. He was prey, simple as that. Until now, he was on the move constantly. He never spent more than a pair of nights within the same accommodations. He changed sectors when hunting and was painfully precise about monitoring the tally of lives taken.

Not wanting to cross or make enemies out of either the vampire or petite slayer, the catalyst of his idol's reform.

What others labeled betrayal, he analyzed through the prism of awe.

_Buffy Summers_.

Her balance, movements, and posture were all immaculate. Most impressive was her sense of anticipation when confronted. She never seemed rushed or unsure; she was present, patient, always in control. She knew exactly when to resort to pure defense and when to attack, transitioning between the two seamlessly.

It was as if she selected – calculated – when her opponent would make a mistake.

The mistake that would turn the matter in her favor.

Yes, some of those very capabilities are predetermined, a part of the slayer legacy as it's coined. But instruction plays a significant part as well. Whoever trained her had done magnificent work, he concluded.

She was stunning at night.

Was it any wonder then that not one but two elders had fallen for her so deeply?

A majority of the time, Spike was at her side. Rarely was their proper space between them. Their moves were synchronous. Occasionally, they slipped – one would reach for the other's hand, and their fingers folded like an automatic reflex. Sometimes, they were joined by a collection of girls all called to be slayers. They were two powerful forces in their own right. Yet, between them, there was no struggle or need for one to exercise domain over the other. They fit together like puzzle pieces.

Making him all the more envious the longer he observed them.

Still, **the **question remained: Why come to Sunnydale?

More to the point, why stay?

Immortality was an illusion and a carefully crafted, nurtured, one. How could one be anything but fascinated by the concept on a surface level with living in stasis, never-changing, forever? Under any coil, immortal or mortal, every being has a story consisting of a beginning, a middle, and an end.

Permanence wasn't part of any fabric.

Because of some unknown force, some entity, burgeoning beneath the surface, the world as he understood it was in danger of changing irrevocably. To stand aside and do nothing would be the easy solution. Hell, it's what the average bloke in his position would do: Let others fight the battle for him and, in all likelihood, lose given the opposition's daily growth rate.

He didn't regard himself as average, and nothing came to him easily.

Nothing worth having ever did.

If allowed to go unchecked, fundamental concepts such as decision-making, calculating risk versus reward, and actually setting one's own terms would be irrelevant – foreign.

Living differently would be far removed from an option as there would be no good or bad, no hope, no reason to look or aspire for something better. The looks he had been privy to over the course of four decades, he thought, were daunting enough. Darkness was the only path ahead.

So dark that not even those considered kindred to himself were safe.

By his estimation, it stretched infinitely.

How could a factor as minuscule and petty by comparison as fear pose an obstacle?

The first move on the chess board was his to make. No matter the outcome, he had to try. He couldn't not act. All of his experiences, the existence he carved for himself, would be tandem out to nothing. He couldn't allow for that. His work warranted much more as did Spike's efforts and those he now shared the battlefield with.

Trust, he knew, would best resemble an invisible film rooting him in place at the onset – assuming that his help would be readily accepted – and then expanding as the camaraderie between them grew.

For now, he watched and waited, tempered by a single certainty.

Self and global preservation were no longer separate. They were inextricable.

**THE END**


End file.
